


“you can borrow mine.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [20]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Canon-Typical Racism, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 13:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21494698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: How the Junior Pinkertons came to be.Canon EraWritten for the twentieth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	“you can borrow mine.”

“Mukherjee! Stop this nonsense at once!”

I do not see how this is possibly my fault.

How Headmaster Twining can look at the situation in the Second Form dormitory and come to the conclusion that I am to blame is beyond me: I am backed up against the left wall beside the spare bed, shirtless with two of the three other boys taunt me. One is kicking and hitting me repeatedly, so hard that I know my shoulders and hips will be patterned with bruises tomorrow morning. The other is pinning me against the wall by forcing my own shirt over my face, holding both sides to keep the tension holding me in place.

“Sorry, Mister Twining,” I gasp out.

I would fight back but is near pointless, and the other boys have kicked all the fight from me.

Moving his glare from me to the rest of the boys, he gestures to the figure standing beside him. It’s the first time I have noticed him, but the moment I do see him, I cannot look away. The boy seems to be my age, with rather a lot of sandy blond hair and enormously curious hazel eyes. He clutches a travel-battered trunk and surveys the room with a naively hopeful look.

“Second Formers, meet our newest student: Alexander Arcady. I expect you to be as kind to him as all the other boy’s are to you—“ I stifle a snort “—and treat him with respect, like good Weston boys should.” With that, he pats the boy — Alexander — on the shoulder encouragingly before striding away.

“Hello,” he says, fixing the room in general with his wildly hopeful stare, eyes sparkling with something in particular. “Pleasure to meet you.”

His accent carries a thick drawl to it, one that tugs at his suffixes, weighs down his vowels, and wraps about his constants. It takes me a moment to discern that he is an American, most likely a southerner from how his syllables roll into one another with no discernible diction.

This, of course, sends the other boys into a frenzy of asking about his accent, where he comes from, what it’s like in America, and if he’s been sent to England because he’s running from gangs.

The idea of gangs is rampant at the moment, and anyone foreign has everyone very excited (or more terrified and abusive than usual, in my case).

While they harass the new boy, I set about finding myself a clean and not-wrinkled shirt, and I’ve just turned my collar down over the perfect Windsor knot when I hear the new boy speak from behind my left shoulder. “Hello.”

There’s no mistaking that he’s speaking to me.

“Hello,” I say cautiously, turning to face him. I stand with my posture infatuated, chest puffed out and arms folded over it, trying to scare him out of whatever the other boys have dared him to do.

“Uh— Alexander Arcady,” he says, holding out a hand for me to shake. I am astonished: none of the other boys have ever willingly touched me except to kick the living daylights out of me, too afraid that the colour of my skin may infect them with the disease that is being Indian. “I didn’t get a chance to greet you. What’s your name?”

“George Mukherjee,” I say, surprising myself by taking his hand and shaking it. “It’s a pleasure. Where in America are you from?”

“Massachusetts, but I was raised in Florida,” he says, and upon seeing my ‘be more specific’ look, awkwardly elaborates with, “I’m from the northeast but I was raised in the south.”

“Oh, a varied upbringing,” I say dryly. “I was born and raised in London. My father is a doctor: Sir Mangaldas Mukherjee, have you heard of him?”

“Sir?!” Alexander exclaims. “Wow, you must be high class for him to have such a title! I’m afraid I haven’t heard of him but— well, I have now!”

One of our dormmates calls him over and he flashes a grin, eyes sparkling with something in particular. “Nice to meet you, Mukherjee.”

* * *

“How do you put up with it?” Alexander asks me when the others are all at their societies. His eyes sparkle with something in particular, though it’s dull with fury.

“What?” I turn from where I am organising my ties to see the American standing with his arms folded a few feet away from me. “Put up with what?”

He waves his arms. “All the abuse! Inigo Bly pushed you up against the wall and punched you in the eye to ‘make your skin more disgusting than it already is’. You’ve been caned thrice since I arrived for religious refusal. The prefects are allowed to clout you across the face just for how you look! I walked into this dorm on my first day to— to see you being abused half to death and— and you just stood there! You took it as if— as if it’s normal. As if it’s  _ right _ for them to do that.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I sneer back, my defensive wall standing tall between us despite the fact that it is taking all the restain I have to not break down. Alexander Arcady… he seems to  _ care _ . He seems — always has seemed — genuinely distressed by every slur that flies at me, every trip and sneer and slap, every unfair punishment, every caning and judgemental look and evil eye.

“You can jolly well tell them to  _ fuck off _ !” he explodes, throwing out his arms in a way that is actually intimidating despite has short sleeves.

I stare him down. “You can  _ fuck off  _ yourself,” I tell him, and hightail it from our dormitory.

The following morning, Alexander is all smiles, eyes sparkling with something in particular, while I have to keep myself as drawn and serious as possible. At breakfast, people decide to begin their abuse early.

I’m trying to eat when a Fifth Former walking past to his table decides to reach over and slam my face into my bowl of cereal. The bowl shatters and cereal and milk fly every which way, soaking myself and the person beside me — with ear-burning anxiety, I realise that it is Alexander.

“Jesus Christ!” Alexander shrieks, and he jerks me by the shoulder to look at my face. “Crikey, George. You’re bleeding!”

“Boys!” Headmaster Twining bellows from the table for teachers. “Quiet, now!”

“Sir, we’re both covered in milk and cereal and George is bleeding, may we go to our dorm and then to the San?” Alexander asks, in a voice far too loud to be used against a teacher.

Still… he only nods, and dismisses us.

Alexander can get away with nigh-on everything.

* * *

Once we’re dressed, I say, “I don’t have a spare tie!”

“You can borrow mine,” Alexander says, stretching out a hand with his spare tie draped over it. “I won’t get in trouble but goodness knows that you will.”

“Right!” I yell, whirling around. “Why on earth are you so  _ nice  _ to me? I mean, I know why you’re nice to me, but you’re dragging it out for far too long. Even Archie Blackhall could only keep up pretending to care about me for three days; you’re dragging it out and making it actually painful, tricking me into thinking that someone cares about me. All you’re doing is what everyone does: taking a dare to pretend to care about me, all so you can gain my trust and then beat me black and blue when we meet up alone to talk! Well? Beat me black and blue now! I know what you’re up to, Arcady. Nobody is as nice as you are. Don’t you dare try to convince me otherwise.”

There is silence for an entire minute after this, and I feel tears gathering in my eyes, which sting and blur my vision into smudges of colour.

Finally, Alexander speaks up. “Are people truly that horrid to you?”

“Yes, Alexander,” I growl, almost spitting the words out. “I know that you are no different. It’s no use pretending.”

“I’ve wanted to be your friend since I began this school,” he said, awkwardly tugging at his cuffs, eyes sparkling with something in particular. “I thought you were interesting. You’re so  _ clever _ , and the books you read! Yet you carry yourself like a king, despite getting beaten down like a peasant. You’re  _ fascinating _ , George. I swear that I don’t want to hurt you.”

I look across the room at kind hazel eyes. He offers a smile and I believe, just for a moment, that Alexander Arcady does not hate me.

I believe that somebody is something other than a miserable racist of the worst sort.

I believe that somebody can be kind.

The tears leak out of my eyes and onto my face, and Alexander gasps. “Oh! I didn’t— I’m sorry, George. I know I shouldn’t, I overstepped—”

“ _ Thank you _ .”

WIth a smile he says, “Do you believe that people can be kind now?”

“Time will tell, Arcady.”

“We’re both idiots,” he remarks, grinning. “We both could have figured out this friendship nonsense months ago.”

“We are not idiots!” I do  _ not _ appreciate that.

“You fancy yourself as a Hercule Poirot type, don’t you?”

“And what of it? Poirot has far more finesse than Holmes,” I reply with an indigent scowl.

Crossing the room towards me, Alexander turns up my collar and wraps the tie around it, tying it neatly up against the base of my throat. “Indeed he does. I fancy myself as a Hastings, you know.” His hand touches my cheek, fluttering over the cut on it. “We need to go to the San, this cut is horrifying.”

I feel a blush spread to my cheeks at the touch. “A Hastings, you say? You know, I’ve always had the idea of making a detective agency.”

“I’ve got an idea for a name,” he says, and I gasp because  _ he’s agreeing _ . “The Junior Pinkertons.”

“That is,” I say, a grin spreading across my face that I can’t stop, “an absolutely smashing idea.”

"Really?" He looks ecstatic that I've agreed, and I'm astonished too because my approval is hard to gain.

Stepping back, I stick out a hand. “So… the Junior Pinkertons?”

He does not shake my hand. Instead, he takes a step forward and grabs my face in his hands, kissing me hard on the lips. “I saw how you’ve been looking at me,” he says, and I am stuck to the spot. “I only hope that you’ve noticed how I’ve been looking at you.”

“I’m not… fantastic with emotions,” I admit, my lips still faintly tingling. “I didn’t notice. But…” I look up has eyes, and I realise that the something particular his eyes sparkle with is  _ love _ . “I can see it now.”


End file.
